First Breath After the Coma
by Lila2
Summary: Four Times Someone Else Saved Chuck Bass and One Time He Saved Himself


**Title:** "First Breath After the Coma (Or Four Times Someone Else Saved Chuck Bass and One Time He Saved Himself"

**Author: **Lilas

**Rating: **PG-13

**Character/Pairing:** Eric, Vanessa, Nate, Jenny, Chuck/Blair

**Spoiler: **"O Brother, Where Bart Thou?"

**Length: **one-shot

**Summary:** When Chuck hits rock bottom, it's the people who love him who keep him afloat.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs

**Author's Note:** My contribution to the month of repeats before GG returns in January. Apparently, I'm addicted to "Five Times" format fics, so here's another attempt. Also, this is my first time ever, in seven years of fanfic writing, where I've written a fic from more than one character's perspective so the entire process was new and scary at all at the same time. Title and inspiration courtesy of Explosions in the Sky. Enjoy.

* * *

**I. Eric**

The flight to Japan is long and even though he spends his mother's money on a first class ticket and thirty minute massage, he stills spends fifteen hours trapped between a sweaty businessman to his right and foggy window to his left.

It's worth it, he thinks (he hopes), he has to believe.

He's never been to Tokyo, but it looks nice from the clammy window of his taxi and he spends the ride to the hotel with scenes from "Lost in Translation" flashing before his eyes. When he got out of the Ostroff Center he left a copy on his mother's bed and hoped she'd watch and understand. She didn't, but she did leave a note thanking him for the film recommendation.

Some things never change.

But they don't necessarily stay the same.

~ * ~

He interrupts a shiatsu in progress when he keys his way into the hotel room and he averts his eyes from the two naked girls working the kinks from his equally naked stepbrother's muscles. Chuck's eyes narrow with annoyance as they round on him, but quickly harden into the cold gaze he remembers well from the funeral. Chuck dismisses the girls with a flick of his wrist and casually drapes a towel across his lap as they hurriedly wrap themselves in silk robes and flee the scene.

Chuck won't look at him as he pours scotch from a nearly empty decanter and slinks into a chair. His cheeks are sallow and his hair falls messily across his brow and Eric can practically smell the guilt wafting through the air like the booze sifting through his pores. Eric would laugh if it weren't so pitiful, because Chuck is like a caricature of every lost weekend, but Eric remembers the long days (and weeks and months) he spent locked up (out of sight and out of mind), cut off from everyone he ever knew and ever loved, so he steels his eyes and stares him down.

Chuck still won't look at him but he will talk to him, his voice low and harsh in the otherwise silent room. "What are you doing here?" he asks and his voice is rough, like it's out of practice, and Eric realizes that it's been over a week since Chuck disappeared from the face of the earth and he's probably the only person he's spoken more than four words to.

Eric feels a bit like he's caught in a self-made "choose your own adventure" because there are a million different ways his road could lead. He could lie and say he came for the sashimi because even Nobu's best attempts are crap; he could save face and claim he's on a magical mystery tour through a movie that hits a little too close home; he could be anything but a Van der Woodsen and tell the truth.

He settles for option "C."

He likes the truth, more than he likes most things (like Jonathan in a pair of low-slung jeans or a genuine smile lighting up his mother's face), and he won't lie to the one person who always told him like it is.

"I'm here to bring you home," he says and almost doesn't see it but he's watching too closely to miss the flinch Chuck tries (but fails) to hide.

He laughs instead, sloshes the scotch in his glass, and finally looks up through a curtain of dirty hair to match his glazed eyes to Eric's. He knows what's coming. He heard it once (the morning after Bart died) and again (at the wake from hell) but he believes third time's a charm and he steels his heart against the words he knows are on their way.

"When are you going to get it…" Chuck starts but trails off mid-sentence, the familiar words caught in his throat. He sloshes the scotch through the glass but doesn't bring the rim to his lips. His fingers flutter against the glass, tapping an uneasy beat that seems to echo mournfully through the room. "How did you even get here?"

"A plane," Eric says. "The same one you're going to take home." He accentuates the last word and Chuck doesn't even bother trying to hide the flinch.

"Like Lily would ever let you fly solo across the Pacific to pick up her dead ex's extra baggage."

"She let Serena run off to South America with the guy she's dated for less than a month. You think she could stop me from bringing my brother home?"

Third time is a charm. The flinch evolves into a full-blown shudder and the glass slips from Chuck's fingers while he brings his cheeks to rest in his hands. Eric takes a chance, because chances are what love is all about, and claps a hand over the rounded curve of Chuck's shoulder. "You don't have to come back to the penthouse but you have to come back to New York. I already lost my stepfather," he tries again. "I can't lose my brother too. I'm not leaving you here, Chuck. Family – we stick together."

"We're not family," Chuck growls. "Your mother married my father and then she killed him. In what reality does that make us related?"

Eric sucks in a breath because the truth hurts, even the truth he tries his damndest to ignore, but he presses on; he didn't fly seven thousand miles to come home empty-handed.

"I never knew my father and my mom tried to replace him three times. Your dad is the only one I ever hoped would stick. We all miss him, Chuck, but we miss you more." He pauses, waits a beat. "I miss you more. Please, come back."

He won't ask again, won't plead or beg because it isn't the Van der Woodsen way, but he means every word he says. He doesn't want to face the UES alone again.

Chuck looks up to meet Eric's eyes and his are red-rimmed and drawn, deep hollows sinking beneath them, but there's a flicker of something alive and hopeful glinting in their depths. "Okay," he finally says. "I'll come back."

~ * ~

He won't say the words but Eric knows actions speak louder anyway. Chuck sleeps fourteen hours of the flight home but his eyes are open wide as the plane taxis down the runway at Kennedy and lights up the city lurking in the distance.

There's no place like home.

**---**

**II. Vanessa**

She hears from Nate that Chuck has returned to his old stomping grounds but it's as if he never came back. She doesn't see him when she cheers Nate on during pick up soccer games in the park, or Penelope's birthday party, or even when she mills about the St. Jude's courtyard at the end of the day and waits for her prince charming to take her on another adventure. She even checks Gossip Girl once or twice, reconnaissance for her boyfriend's MIA best friend, but she's strangely silent on the subject of Bad Bart's heir apparent.

His father is dead and it's all the city can talk about; his son comes home and it's like he never existed at all.

~ * ~

When Horace calls it's three in the afternoon and she's supposed to meet Nate for hot chocolate at Serendipity by four. She'd rather a mug of chamomile at Tea Lounge but it's Nate's afternoon to plan and she doesn't protest. She still can't believe he took her back; she doesn't want to ruin it by pushing too hard.

She hears the word "emergency" and digs through her stash for enough bills for a cab. It doesn't matter that it might cut into next month's rent; nothing comes before Nate and she can't be late.

She thinks the pipes froze, or the gas line sprung a leak, or the liquor license got pulled – she expects anything and everything except Chuck Bass downing scotch like it's his job and pulling his best Edward Cullen impression while huddled at the end of the speakeasy's bar.

"He's been here all morning," Horace says when she pauses in front of the beer tap and sits down for a moment to take it all in. "Comes in every day. I don't have the heart to tell him to go."

She doesn't have the heart to make it harder for him either, but he looks three shades too pale and one drink away from joining his father in the great beyond and it doesn't sit right with her. "You didn't cut him off?"

Horace shrugs and casts a long, sad look down the bar. "His daddy just died. Who am I to tell him what to do?"

Vanessa sighs. The first time Chuck Bass has come up for air in nearly a week and he's licking his wounds in her territory. She can't escape Gossip Girl country even when she tries. "Did he say anything to you?" she asks.

Horace shakes his head. "That's why I called you, V."

She stares down the bar and watches Chuck pour another glass. He's wearing one of his trademark suits but the jacket is draped casually over the back of his chair and his shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow and his hair is falling over his forehead. It's like he tried to fit in and failed miserably and gave up entirely rather than face his own limitations. She knows her own; she has a feeling he's drowning in booze rather than accept his.

She takes a deep breath and sits in the seat beside him. He doesn't look up but he does finish his glass and reach for the bottle; her fingers lock over his like a vice.

"You're done, Bass," she says and tightens her grip.

His fingers flex under hers and he looks up to meet her, anger burning in his gaze. She remembers the dead look in his eyes in the photos of his father's funeral; she's glad he's feeling something, even if it's directed at her. "Let go of me, Vanessa," he hisses but doesn't touch her. He might be a Bass but he's also a gentleman and he'll wait for her to make the first move.

"Time to call it a night," she insists and uses her free hand to unwind his fingers from the bottle.

He pulls away like he's been burned (or infected with a disease called Brooklyn) and glares at her through the dim light. "You don't care about me. Why are you even here?"

She could lie and make it better, but he's Chuck Bass and honesty has always been his forte. "I don't care about you," she confesses. "But Nate does and I care about him."

"Ah, Nathaniel." Chuck breaks their shared gaze and stares somewhere over her shoulder, something wistful shimmering in his eyes. "Isn't he supposed to be the one giving you a happy ending?"

She laughs, just to break the tension, and when she smiles at him there isn't anything mocking about it. "It's the 21st Century, Chuck. Us girls put in our fair share of the rescuing. Let me take you home. You don't belong here."

"I don't belong there either," he says and she's not sure what he means, the penthouse or The Palace or the Upper East Side, but she knows he can't hide in Brooklyn forever. She can't fix him either, but she can make it easier for a little while.

She can't believe her words, even as they come out of her own mouth and she hears them with her own ears, but that doesn't mean they aren't true. "I have a couch," she offers. "Extra blankets, the original "Solaris" on dvd. I could use some company, for as long as you want. What do you think?"

He doesn't answer but his fingers creep back over hers and cling.

~ * ~

He falls asleep before the first act is over and she covers him with one of her mom's organic blankets and leaves a glass of water and two Aleve on the coffee table. Vanessa glances over at him and smiles, because he's still wearing remnants of his three-piece suit but his shoes are on the floor and his hair is falling softly over his brow and he doesn't look much different than memories of her father napping away the Sunday afternoons of her childhood.

She watches him for a while, monitors his breathing and checks his pulse, and texts Nate because she's done all she can. "I saved your boy. Time for you to bring him home."

---

**III. Nate**

The circumstances are completely different but it still hurts when Nate finds Chuck asleep on his girlfriend's couch. He's fully clothed and reeks of Glenlivet and grief but Nate can't stop his mind from pondering what's already been and could be again.

He watches him for long moments, the flutter of his eyelids against his cheeks and the slow, even breaths easing between his lips and the stark peaks his cheekbones form against the slope of his face. Chuck has always looked the part of the devil he believes himself to be inside, but today he's more like a junkie off a six-day bender than the fallen angel Nate never had the courage to be.

"He's still here," Vanessa whispers as she perches on the arm of his chair. "He got up around four and drank some water and took his pills, but he hasn't stirred since. Do you want me to wake him?"

Nate counts the shadows under his best friend's eyes and shakes his head. "Let him sleep." Even fueled by booze and pain, it's probably the most rest he's gotten in weeks. Vanessa curls against him and he leans against her weight, warm and strong at his side. He watches the rise and fall of Chuck's chest and feels something constrict between his own ribs. "I should have been here sooner," he murmurs against her hair. "I should have known what was going on."

"No one knew, Nate," she says. "You're here now. That's what matters." She pulls herself out of his lap to stand and he reaches for her, wrapping his arms around her waist, resting his cheek against her side.

"Don't go," he begs. He glances at Chuck again, the dark circles ringing his eyes and the too-long hair draped over his brow, and if weren't for the remnants of a bowtie peeking from under the blanket, he doesn't think he'd recognize his friend. He doesn't want to be alone with him.

Vanessa simply looks at him, like she can look right through him and see what he really means. "I'm just running out for bagels and coffee. He probably won't even wake up before I get back."

He wants to protest but there's something sharp and determined in her eyes and he remembers that he likes this girl because she's different than the rest (because appearances might be deceiving but there's more to her than saving face) and smiles. He nods, grabs her hand. "Thank you. You didn't have to get involved but I'm glad you did."

Her face softens as she smiles and presses a kiss to his lips. "He matters to you so he matters to me."

Nate glances at Chuck over Vanessa's shoulder, sleeping on his girlfriend's couch and tucked under his girlfriend's blanket. He's supposed to be his best friend; he hasn't made him matter enough.

~ * ~

Of course Chuck wakes up before Vanessa gets back. He doesn't stretch or groan, but he does rub his eyes and look around in confusion and stare up at Nate blearily.

"Nathaniel?" he rasps. "Where the hell am I?"

"Brooklyn," Nate says and represses a grin at the look of pure horror that passes over Chuck's face as he takes in his surroundings. "You're at Vanessa's apartment. She's been looking after you."

Chuck runs a hand through his hair and puts his feet on the floor, argyle socks creeping from beneath Vanessa's mother's woven blanket. "Why are you here?"

Nate could tell the truth – because Vanessa's my girlfriend and she called and asked for my help and I have a hero complex that can't be denied – but he hates to admit, especially to himself, that being there for his friend isn't the real reason he's jumped boroughs. "Vanessa called," he explains. "She said you needed help. I came running."

Chuck watches him from beneath messy bangs, looking at him in like Vanessa, like he can see right through him, and sinks inside himself as his shoulders slouch and his eyes drop to the floor. "I appreciate your concern. If you could hand me my jacket, I'll call my driver and be on my way."

"We'll get a cab," Nate insists. "I'll come back to Manhattan with you."

"That's not necessary," Chuck says and rises from the couch, searching through the blankets for his missing jacket.

"Yeah, it is."

Chuck pauses, pulls his jacket over his shoulders and slides his arms inside. His voice is very low, almost non-existent as he finally looks up and his eyes meet Nate's head on. "You can stop pretending, Nathaniel. Nothing's been the same since Blair and we both know it. Game over. No one won." His shoulders slump and Nate has never seen his friend so defeated.

Nate remembers all the times he's been defeated, by Carter Baizen and Dalton lacrosse and even his own father every time the Captain made a decision no true man could be proud of, and he remembers Chuck's constant presence behind him, standing with him and keeping him upright. He remembers losing it all and secret societies at Yale and Dan Humphrey and soccer games in the park and the millisecond of hurt flashing through Chuck's eyes when he pretended they hadn't been friends their entire lives. He knows it has nothing to with Blair; he knows it has everything to do with the kind of person he is. "I haven't been a very good friend to you. It's time I started making up for it."

"You don't need to do this – " Chuck starts but Nate cuts him off.

"I want to. I care about three things, Chuck. None of them have to do with money; one of them is you. Whatever you need, that's why I'm here. You shouldn't be alone right now."

For a moment he thinks Chuck will say no, say something mean and unforgiving and lurch out in the cold and disappear for another three weeks. For a moment, he thinks Chuck has the same plan. Then the moment passes and he looks more lost and than Nate ever thought possible. "I don't have anywhere to go."

Nate drags an arm over Chuck's slumped shoulders, pulling him close and holding him upright. "You have me. I have a house, a chef, lots of room. It's not The Palace but there's a place for you. "

Chuck stiffens under the weight of Nate's arm but doesn't push him away. "Okay," he says. "I'll come stay."

~ * ~  
They run into Vanessa in the stairwell on their way out, and true to her word she's carrying a bag of bagels and a tray of coffee, but she waves them away when Nate tries to explain.

"You can do this," she says as she hugs Nate goodbye. "It's never too late to do the right thing." She smiles sheepishly. "I would know."

She kisses him goodbye and he climbs into the livery cab. Chucks sits behind the driver, a vacant look in his bloodshot eyes as he stares into the Bushwick wasteland. The sun is just starting to peek through the clouds and its rays fill the cab, drowning the occupants in a harsh morning glow.

Nate slides his Ray-Bans over Chuck's eyes to protect them from the light. He has a lifetime of making up to do; he can't start quickly enough.

---

**IV. Jenny**

Jenny knows her father was a one-hit wonder (in 1993) and he kind of made a comeback (in early 2008) and she knows she made a splash (a couple weeks before Thanksgiving), but she doesn't think either of them are famous enough to justify the limo that hovers constantly outside the loft.

Yet, it's there one day, and the next, and on the third day she watches it between a gap in curtains her mother used to love (but abandoned for something better out in Hudson) and wonders if she should be worried or honored that some version of Gawker Stalker has tracked her down. On the fourth day she decides enough is enough and while Dan and her dad are drowning their pain at the gallery, she braves the January chill to solve the problem on her own.

She knocks on the window and there's no response; she tries the passenger side door and it opens easily. There's someone dark-haired and blank-eyed curled in the driver's seat and for a moment she thinks it's Nate.

Except she knows Nate would never take a limo anywhere, much less Brooklyn, and it's only when she blinks through the haze of smoke and pain that she realizes it's Chuck Bass playing the role of Archibald heir.

He doesn't look like himself. His hair has been long for a while and it's still falling messily over his brow, hiding his empty gaze from the rest of the world. He's wearing clothes that are familiar but all wrong at the same time: Lacoste sneakers, Diesel jeans, a grey hoodie that looks old and worn but probably cost more than an entire month's rent. She realizes with a start that they're Nate's clothes, the same hoodie he would shed during soccer games with her brother, the same shoes that wore paths through the loft those weeks he was a part of her life.

She remembers reading on Gossip Girl that Nate took Chuck home, the photos and the captions and biting commentary as Nate led his friend up the stairs of the Archibald townhouse. She takes in the clothes and the hair and the pot wafting through the cold air and wonders if Chuck is doing more than hiding behind his best friend's closed door.

She's at a crossroads – she can turn back and pretend this never happened or she can slip inside the dark depths of Chuck Bass's life and figure out why he's been watching her house for the better part of a week.

Fifteen has been all about taking risks, so she takes a deep breath and slips into the seat next to him, slamming the door behind her.

~ * ~

She's not sure where to start and spends the first moment or so in awkward silence, the smoke drifting through the air and making her eyes burn and her clothes reek while Chuck watches her with that eerie vacant stare.

"What are you doing here?" she finally asks and he continues to watch her, a stream of smoke easing from between his lips. "Don't play dumb, Chuck," she tries again. "You've been watching my house for the last four days. Either tell me what you want or I'm going to call the police."

He doesn't seem phased by the imminent threat of law enforcement, but he does stub out the joint in an almost empty glass of scotch. "I'm not breaking any laws."

"Yeah, but you're creeping me out."

He shrugs. "Not my problem." His gaze isn't particularly focused but there's still something razor sharp in the way he keeps looking out her window, eyes trained on the entrance to the loft.

It all comes together.

She brings a snippet of the funeral to mind, Chuck racing down a hill and throwing his rage and grief at her brother, hissing something low and dangerous in his ear. _"Do you have any idea what his family has done?"_

"You're waiting for my dad," she says softly. "You think it's his fault that your dad died." He doesn't respond and she takes his silence as confirmation. "Oh my god, Chuck. What are you going to do?

His eyes never leave the loft but his voice is surprisingly steady. "My father died because Rufus Humphrey couldn't leave well enough alone. He should know that it's my father's blood on his hands."

Jenny wants to fight back, defend the man who stood by her through the worst things she ever did, the darkest thoughts she ever had, but she remembers her mother's tears last Thanksgiving, the light in Lily Bass' eyes at the Snowflake Ball, the slow, easy smile that broke across her father's face whenever "Everytime" would blare through the loft, and she runs out of things to say. "It's not his fault," is all she can come up with. "It's no one's fault."

Chuck reaches for the scotch. "His whore said the same thing."

It takes her moment to realize he's talking about Lily and she almost opens her mouth to defend her too. She's always liked Lily, even when she shouldn't have. After all, even when Lily left, she always came back. She remembers the red door in Hudson and the shock on her mom's face; she can't say the same about her own mother. "Sitting outside my apartment isn't going to make it better, Chuck. Yelling at my dad isn't going to bring yours back. You're not going to find what you're looking for here."

He finally turns away from the window to glare at her and it takes everything in her not to shrink back in fear. "Stop pretending like you know anything about me," he sneers.

It's time to be braver than she ever has before and she takes another deep breath. "I know that I forgive you," she says.

"What?" He stares at her blankly and it has nothing to do with the booze or the pot streaming through his blood; he really has no idea what she's talking about.

"Up on the roof at the "Kiss on the Lips Party?" Don't act like you have no idea what I'm talking about."

He swirls the scotch through his glass, gripping it like a lifeline, but doesn't bring it to his lips. "How could I forget? I still owe your brother a black eye."

Jenny shakes her head. "I'm talking about me, Chuck. What happened to *me* on the roof. What you tried to do to me up there? I forgive you for it. That doesn't make it okay, because in a million years it's not okay, but I had to stop being mad about it."

"I'd say you got your revenge at the masked ball."

She shrugs. "I guess. But revenge didn't make it better. It didn't make it go away. I had to do that myself." She pauses, reaches out to lay her fingers against his knee. "Give it up, Chuck. Go home."

He jerks from under her touch but his eyes lock with hers and for a moment she thinks he's going to cry. "I'm sorry," he says and she's not sure if he's apologizing to her or the father he buried at eighteen. She doesn't think it matters.

~ * ~

She pulls her hand back and buttons her coat, opens the door and steps out into the cold air. Night is approaching and it's getting dark, the sun slipping behind the skyline to coat the city in a gilded, golden glow. She holds her phone to her ear as the door slams behind her and the engine revs.

She makes a call, leaves a message. "Blair? It's Jenny Humphrey. I know I'm the last person you're expecting to hear from, but I just had the weirdest conversation with Chuck. I think he' on his way home. I hope you're ready."

She smiles as the limo makes the turn for the bridge and the world Chuck knows.

---

**V. Chuck**

Blair is waiting for him when he arrives at her penthouse. Eleanor is nowhere in sight, but Dorota smiles sympathetically as she leads him upstairs and he finds Blair propped against her headboard.

Her face is blank but her eyes tell a different story, clinging to his as he closes her bedroom door behind him. She won't cry again (he knows her well enough to know that) but her eyes seem to bleed agony as they lock on him, the hair he hasn't bothered cutting in the six weeks since he buried his father and the yellow tinge to his skin and the way Nate's clothes hang loosely from his frame.

She sucks in a breath as she takes him in. "What took you so long?"

It feels like a lifetime since she asked him the same question, because it's been six weeks since he buried his father and it still feels like the earth is spinning off its axis. He wakes (every morning) and eats (sometimes) and sleeps (never) and the world goes on as it did before but there's a huge gaping hole where his life used to be.

He remembers ordering her to chase him; remembers begging her to love him; remembers abandoning her when she wouldn't submit to him.

None of it matters anymore. His father is dead and he's tired, tired of drinking and tired of sex and tired of drugs and tired of walking a fine line between living (because it's what's expected of him) and dying (because it's where his father is).

He knows he needs to be brave, be the man his father always wanted him to be, and he sneaks another glance at Blair; it's like a sucker punch straight to the heart. She's working to keep it together, the way her eyes keep darting across his face and her mouth trembles with every second he hesitates to answer, and he knows there are two ways this story can end. He can run or he can stay but he doesn't think he can do either alone.

He takes a small step towards her, then another, and before he can take a third step she's off the bed and wrapped around him like a safety net. He breathes in the smell of her hair and the scent of her skin and he doesn't care what perfume she's wearing because the only thing she smells like is home.

He whispers into her hair, breathes her in and breathes her out. "Everyone keeps telling me to come home. I didn't know where else to go."

She pulls back to look into his eyes and they're threatening to spill at any moment but she holds her head high. "Whatever you're going through, I'm going to be there for you." She nods, so he knows she means it, and cups his face in her hands. "You don't have to say it back, but I'll say it again. I love you."

He wants to say it back. He wants to say it more than he wants he wants Rufus Humphrey to pay for his sins and Lily to suffer for hers; he wants it almost as much as he wants to see the disappointment in his father's eyes just one more time because it means he's alive. He wants to say it but he can't. Not until it's right. Not until he can forgive himself the way Jenny forgave him.

He won't tell her those three words so he settles for kissing her instead. It's soft, gentle, like that first kiss in the back of the limo after Victrola, and he remembers the trust in her eyes that night that rivals the trust in her eyes as she stares up at him.

He pulls away and takes her hand and leads her to the bed. She doesn't say a word as he strips off Nate's sweater and Nate's shirt, or unbuttons the starched cotton of her school uniform. She's still silent as he traces the line of her collarbone with his tongue, presses kisses across the swell of her breasts and down the taunt length of stomach.

He remembers pressing his hand against her in January, almost thinking he'd feel something kick beneath his palm, and the way she'd pulled away like she'd been burned (or infected with a disease called Bass), and notes the way she arches up under his touch, fingers curling in his hair and silently asking for more.

The more things change the more they don't stay the same.

~ * ~

He doesn't sleep with her. It's too much, too soon, and he cares about her in ways that makes sex seem cheap and beneath her. He's fucked his way through his grief with Kristi and Kim and the room service staff of half the hotels between New York and Tokyo.

Blair means more to him; Blair means everything to him.

He doesn't sleep with her but he does curl into the cradle of her arms and whisper his deepest secrets. "It was my fault," he says into the darkness, her hand stroking a familiar pattern across his back. "I told him to come to the dance. If I hadn't called, he wouldn't have gotten into that car and he'd still be alive."

She pauses – even in the darkness he can hear the hesitance in her breathing – but doesn't back down. "It was no one's fault, Chuck. One day, you're going to believe that, but until that day? That's why you have me."

"I miss him," he says and isn't ashamed by the tears he feels dripping slowly down his cheeks. "I hated him but I still miss him."

She doesn't brush the tears away, but she does slide behind him, hot and soft all over, and wrap her arms tighter around him. She doesn't say anything either, because he knows there's nothing to say, and she presses a butterfly kiss to the back of his neck instead.

~ * ~

He sleeps with her breasts pillowing his face, his cheek pressed against the warm skin right above her heart. He can feel its steady beat against his face, the ebb and blow of life pulsing through her, and he can't bear to pull himself away. He curls around her, bare limbs intertwining with his, and her soft heat keeps him warm all night long.

~ * ~

She's gone when he wakes the next morning (his first full night of sleep in six weeks) but there's a suit laid out for him on the chair and Dororta and breakfast waiting for him downstairs.

His car picks him up right on time and he arrives for the reading of his father's will with ten minutes to spare.

Surprisingly, Lily is there with only her children guarding her flank, her usual flock of Humphreys banished to Brooklyn.

He doesn't know how to feel when he realizes Blair and Nate are there too and he's not the least bit surprised to see them.

Blair takes his hand and whispers in his ear, "Everyone you know is standing in this room. Everyone who cares about you is here too."

Eric smiles and Serena looks guilty and Lily has the decency not to look at him at all.

He has to wonder if it was Bart Bass' greatest gift to his only son – his father has been dead six weeks and he's never felt more loved.

* * *

~ *~

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